


you, who lack all honor

by sarahbacou



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Tries His Best, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sickfic, also YES i named the title after a thorin oakenshield quote from dos fucking fight me, but i'm geralt/yennefer until the day i die, jaskier just really needs a hug and to be told he's worth something, oh turtle ducks we really in it now, that movie is SHIT, this fic isn't tho uwu, y'all can read a geraskier relationship if y'all want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25561501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahbacou/pseuds/sarahbacou
Summary: “Anything goes in the arena. You can kick, punch, bite if you’re able, stab, jab, and spit. Just don’t try to escape. There are guards posted at every gate so you won’t get out even if you wanted. The fight doesn’t end until one of the competitors is dead. Questions?”Jaskier huffed his annoyance and held the broadsword with two hands, the tip of it dragging in the dirt. He didn’t have a plan for the battle, so he wiped a sweaty hand on the hot metal of the armor. The gates opened, his name was announced (Julian Alfred Pankratz, the Adulterer, the announcer had roared. It was nice to know the mayor had stayed true to his dickish personality and not picked up a dictionary.) and he took a step forward before turning around to face the weapons master.“Can I go to the bathroom?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 133





	you, who lack all honor

**Author's Note:**

> honestly i should have finished this on july 6th but then i just hit a depressive episode, binged five season of it's always sunny, and read three 500 page books in two days so you tell me when the fuck i would've found the time to finish this shit in a timely manner.

I

The numbing taste of whiskey slid down Jaskier’s throat easily enough as he tipped his head upwards towards the ceiling of the inn. Orange light danced dully along the wooden beams above him, courtesy of the fire that burned near him. There were plenty of other light sources - lanterns swinging haphazardly from the walls, a candle or two at the bar that Jaskier was seated at - but it seemed to be ineffective towards the encroaching darkness of the night outside. Shadows were sketched in every corner and cavity, placing grubby charcoal stains upon the world that no amount of bright fire could burn away. Had every inn been like this, dim and blurred and tenebrous? Jaskier didn’t like to think so. He would have liked to think that some had adequate lighting, that some establishment shone like a bright beacon in blackness - a lone white spot on parchment that had been unwittingly dropped in a pile of ink.

Maybe it’d just been like this for Jaskier’s entire life, and he had gotten used to the two decades reprieve of lumosity in his existence before it was snuffed out. Maybe it was just more noticeable now that he had been alone after years and years of friendship. Even if it had been like this before, it was particularly bad now. A lot of the patrons and innkeepers would walk up to Jaskier, bellies jiggling full of alcohol and minds stuffed full of warbling tunes that spilled out of their mouths as questions. 

“Where is the White Wolf?”

“Your Witcher? Got any new songs about ‘im?” 

“Tha’ Gemmite of Rivium or sommfing… ‘E wan’ ‘ave an arm wres’ling match wif me?” 

They kept digging up the past and mining memories that Jaskier would rather just _forget_ . Forget _all_ of it. Forget he’d ever set foot in that bar that Sunday morning all those years ago, and certainly try to not remember the cottony taste his mouth was filled with after Geralt left him on the mountainside. Sometimes his head still swam at the thought of how cold the wind was at that moment. He’d been angry then, hurt even more so, but after five months of travelling on his own and getting drunk at every opportunity that presented itself, Jaskier couldn’t say that he really felt anything other than tiredness. 

“We don’t travel together anymore,” Jaskier would say to the ones who asked him about Geralt. “So I don’t have any new songs for you.”

“Well… Could you sing _Toss a Coin_?” 

“Sorry, not tonight. My throat is sore.” 

Truthfully he hadn’t picked up his lute or a quill since Geralt jilted him. Jaskier’s best songs had always been about the mysterious White Wolf. He hadn’t sung any of his old tunes either. It didn’t feel right, not without Geralt sullenly nursing a tankard of beer in the corner, drinking whenever Jaskier caught his eye and smiled at him. Presently Jaskier survived off of pure pity, and it wasn’t that hard, especially if there was a pretty lady involved. 

If there was one thing Jaskier didn’t miss it was tiptoeing around Geralt to have sex at night. It was nice to exist in a space where when he eventually clambered back to their shared room the next morning he wouldn’t be glared suspiciously at. He’d tell Geralt that it wasn’t _his_ fault his sour demeanor put off all the prostitutes in town, maybe he should try _smiling_ for once. That’d get him a boot in the chest and a grumbling, “Shut up, Bard,” as a morning greeting. Now, though, Jaskier could open his doublet as wide as he wanted, kiss necks as often as his heart desired, and march upstairs instead of fucking in the hay of the horse stables. 

Jaskier’s current bedmate was a lovely and inexperienced young woman by the name of Almira. They’d met a couple of towns north of where they were now. She said that she was rich (which really was the only strict criteria Jaskier had, although blondes were a bonus, and Almira’s hair was nearly white) and that her husband had completely lost her interests. Jaskier had never been afraid of non-title holding spouses and gleefully agreed to see Almira safely to the southern border of her land, permitted that room and board were provided. She looked him up and down, maybe grabbed his dick and balls once or twice, and politely agreed to Jaskier’s terms with the addendum that they fuck at least twice a week. 

So here he was, blinking up at the ceiling until his neck throbbed and his spine ached. The years had not been kind to him, especially those years he’d spent travelling with Geralt. Jaskier groaned as his head tipped forward again, blindly grasping for his cup of whiskey. He didn’t like whiskey on the best of days, but it was what Almira was recommended, so it was what they drank. 

The patrons of the bar were a little younger than Jaskier was, though not by much. There was a university in this town so most were fresh out of adolescence and had just started to grow their first full beards. It was loud and rambunctious and not at all a place Geralt would have chosen to stay at. Almira, however, enjoyed a large populace, fully immersing herself within the community around them as to pretend she was part of them, if only for one night. Jaskier sat on his stool, trying to keep his head down and face hidden in the dark light lest he be badgered about Geralt again. He’d been good about it since meeting Almira. No one had singled him out for who he truly was.

“Jask, dance with me!” Almira pleaded, grabbing his arm and pressing her soft warm breasts against his shoulder. Her eyes glittered with happiness. It was clear that whoever her husband was he had not approved of partying such as this. Jaskier hated to be the bearer of bad news. 

“I’m a little drunk, Almira.” 

“That didn’t stop you last night!” 

Jaskier laughed weakly into his cup, slamming the rest of the whiskey down his throat. “No, but I nearly broke my arm last night. Besides, my neck hurts. If I break it on the dance floor then no one will be able to escort you.”

“Please? I won’t make you have sex with me tomorrow night.”

“Almira, love, I’d rather take the sex than the dance.”

“One dance! One teensy little dance! It can be a slow one if you want!” 

A fast-paced dance would be quicker, which meant less time for the patrons to recognize Jaskier, but a slow dance meant that he could hide his face in Almira’s bosom. He sighed and hopped off the stool, Almira still clinging to him like wet paper to stone. “Next dance, whatever it is, okay? But then I’m going to bed.” She nodded in agreement and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

Jaskier wondered, as he was pulled to the dance floor, if he could have persuaded Geralt to do anything like this. Not the dancing - Geralt, despite being graceful, also had two left feet and a particular deafness towards rhythm - but the having fun part. Because this _was_ fun, Jaskier had to admit. He’d gotten thrills from adventuring, from stepping outside of his comfort zone. Geralt hardly ever did that. Jaskier wished he’d forced Geralt to strum a single note on his lute, or had a cram eating contest, or flung mud at each other in sheer joy. 

The dance itself was a swift partnered dance, and most of the boys here hadn’t a girl slung over their arms and sat it out. Jaskier and Almira were accompanied by six other couples, and before Jaskier could notice how empty the space around them was, Almira had taken them both around the floor, sweeping her body and feet in time to the music. It was all he could do to match her speedy movements, but Jaskier managed as he usually did and soon he was smiling that old smile and felt now-dusty intuitive happiness burst into his heart once more. The entire establishment suddenly got brighter. Hopeful, Jaskier even dared to think. The smudged shadows of night were driven away. 

That was, until the door of the inn was shoved open, and the cold wind of night snuffed out most of the light. 

“ALMIRA!”

Jaskier released Almira’s delicately soft hands as she squealed out a soft and frightened, “Fuck!” and made for the stairs. He turned his neck towards the entrance, arms still poised at mid-chest like a deer caught in candlelight. 

_Man_ , he had the worst luck. 

There before him stood Almira’s husband. Big and burly and black-haired, he strided over to Jaskier and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, hoisting him up a good couple inches off the ground. “What the _fuck_ are you doing with my wife?!” 

Jaskier ticked his head a little to the left before answering, quite courageously, in his opinion, because it was a bullshit lie, “Well I’m not fucking her.” 

He was promptly hurled into the stools by the bar. “Yeah,” Jaskier groaned to himself, rubbing the back of his head. “Didn’t think that’d work.” He pushed himself up into a seated position on the floor and looked up at the giant of a man. “Look, if anything, _she_ bought _me_. Not that I’m a prostitute! We’ve just come to an agreement. I help her get to where she wants to go in exchange for free room and a hot meal. And - and really -” Jaskier tried to scramble back to get away from the man’s imposing shadow that was looming closer and closer, but only managed to hit the bar. Heat radiated off of Almira’s husband; waves of residual choler washed heavily over Jaskier, who swallowed a lump of fear. “Isn’t that what friends do for each other? Good friends. Non-sex having friends.” 

“Almira doesn’t _have_ friends,” The man snarled. Give him tusks and he would look like a boar. For a second his gaze was off of Jaskier and up at Almira, who stood over them on the second floor of the inn, shaking like a leaf. “But what she _does_ have IS A FILTHY HOME AND AN ANGRY HUSBAND!” 

“Have you, and this is just merely a suggestion, thought about, I don’t know… helping out?” 

_Shut up, Bard_ , warned Jaskier’s consciousness, which sounded more like Geralt than he would care to admit. Almira’s husband roared and lunged for Jaskier again.

“Put him down!” Almira cried out, nearly tripping over her dress as she clambered back down the stairs. “It’s not his fault!” 

“Say please.” 

Jaskier difficulty swallowed again, his shoulders aching from where his shirt cut into his armpits. He wasn’t sure where he was supposed to look. Probably not at Almira because that would just intensify her husband’s fury more, and certainly not at her him. Instead, he looked at the crowd that had formed around the trio. Wide eyes of fascination and fear blinked back at him, a wild cadence of a murmur passed by Jaskier’s ear every so often, but he was too terrified to make out what it meant.

“ _Please_.” Almira hissed, teeth clenched together. Jaskier was dropped to the ground very unkindly. He rubbed his bottom where it would surely bruise. 

“Thanks for that,” He whispered, clutching his head.

“I wouldn’t thank her just yet. See, you little rat of a man, you _fucking weasel_ , I’m gonna duel you. To the death. And you may say that I can’t do that, but I’ll let you in on a little secret-” Almira’s husband knelt down and grasped Jaskier’s chin to make eye contact. “The mayor of this town _knows_ you, _Julian Alfred Pankratz_. Seems you fucked his virgin daughter a while back. Maybe you’ve been too drunk to notice, maybe Almira here wouldn’t stop sucking on your face long enough, but there’ve been wanted posters for you all over town. Mayor says if he watches, the capturer gets to do whatever he wants with you. Kinda like what you did with his daughter. Point is, I found you with my wife, and now you get to duel me.”

 _Fuck_ , said both Jaskier’s inner thoughts and his Geralt sounding consciousness.

II

The jail cell was even darker than the inn. 

Jaskier had been thrown in here before the purple of twilight hailed the early hours of the morning. There hadn’t been much discussion in the way of Jaskier getting to go free. He’d tried to make a hasty seconds-long case for himself, but there wasn’t much he could say when the judge held up a wanted photo beside his face. His hair was shorter, then, and his chin and jawline relatively clean-shaven. Whoever had sketched the portrait had gotten his nose slightly wrong, though. Jaskier had stared at himself for long enough periods of time to know that it curved to the left and not to the right. The verdict had been quick and instantaneous: the day after tomorrow, Jaskier would face off Almira’s husband in a duel to the death, and until then would reside in the town’s dismal jail.

Looking on the bright side of things, and there weren’t a lot, Jaskier would tell you, he still got a free meal. Mind you it wasn’t hot, more of an awful cold porridge than anything else, but still, silver linings. 

There was one lonely iron torch on the wall opposite where Jaskier was manacled, and the light it gave off was absolutely abysmal. He could hardly see the lines of the stone floor a foot in front of him, and Jaskier himself was all but consumed by the shadows. A guard sat outside his cell, though he didn’t quite understand the need for it as Jaskier was crafty in all but his escape plans. The cold rusted metal dug into his numb hands and he uselessly tried to wriggle feeling back into them. At the height they had chained him up Jaskier could neither sit nor stand comfortably. It was as if they wanted him at his worst for the duel. 

Almira had been present when Jaskier had been sentenced. She herself was punished for making her husband a cuckold and would spend a mere day in the cell next to Jaskier. He had called out to her but there had been no response, so either she had been threatened by her husband shortly before arrival or she’d fallen asleep already. 

Jaskier would honestly give his firstborn child to be able to sleep. He’d need his strength for the duel, which he didn’t know how he was going to survive it. That was probably the point. He wasn’t going to survive at the hands of Almira’s husband. He’d crush Jaskier like a fleshy grape and that would be that.

He wondered if Geralt would hear of his passing. The mayor seemed quite boastful of catching known adulterer (which was the wrong word, as Jaskier had never been married, so the mayor was a boastful idiot) Julian Alfred Pankratz, and had even made posters celebrating a feast and fair in honor of Jaskier’s demise. Word would no doubt travel fast. His death would be a spectacle. He’d finally get the fame he wanted, though not quite _how_ he wanted. But Geralt was impervious to any conversation or written language that didn’t concern monster hunting, so Jaskier bet it would be a couple of weeks at best, two months at worst before Geralt would find out what had happened. 

Would Geralt even _care_? It was a nice thought, but it probably wouldn’t happen. Geralt wasn’t in the business of caring, especially for Bards like Jaskier who ran their mouths and shoved shit onto other people. 

The first light of dawn had appeared in the high window of the cell and Jaskier groaned as he tried to stand up, pushing the straw away with his feet to gain traction. It was going to be one of his last sunrises. Jaskier loved sunrises. He didn’t want to miss another one. The view wasn’t great from where he was; a church steeple blocked most of the sky, but it was enough for Jaskier to be content.

Sunrises were best when he was traveling with Geralt. Company excluded, they had been to a myriad of different terrains and heights from which Jaskier could view the morning sky whenever he woke up early enough. His favorite places to see sunrises were probably mountains - preferably snowcapped. It offset the dusty pinks and purples with stark black and white. There wasn’t any of that right now. Everything just faded from purple to a dull grey. Jaskier exhaled, letting his cheeks puff out as he slowly lowered himself onto the floor. His arms and legs ached from the cramped positions he was forced into, but there was little he could do to resolve the pain other than close his eyes and try to sleep it off. 

“Wakey wakey!” A gravelly voice called, and a deluge of dirty water was splashed onto Jaskier. He gasped and sputtered, already shivering with cold.

“F-Fuck!” He yelped, spitting out greywater and blinking it out of his eyes. “I w-was-sn’t even as-sleep!” 

“Meh, you stink, adulterer. You needed a bath.” Jaskier turned his face towards his cell bars, glowering up at the guard with an empty bucket in his hands.

“I’m-m-n-not an adulterer! I’ve n-never been-n-m-m-married!”

The guard shrugged. “It’s all the same to the mayor. Still fucked his virgin daughter.” He unlocked the cell door and dropped Jaskier’s familiar meal of colorless porridge on the floor between his widespread legs. Water from his hair dripped down into the food, which made his stomach curl in on itself. “Breakfast for you.”

Jaskier swallowed nervously and smiled up at the guard. There was already a grey puddle on the edge of the plate, and he really didn’t fancy getting parasites before his big day. “No thanks. Had a b-big dinner las-st night.” 

The guard smiled pleasantly. Jaskier let out a nervous laugh, heart pounding in his chest. He wasn’t sure why he was more afraid of the guard than of Almira’s husband, the man who was literally going to bash his brains in, but he was. Maybe it was because he wore a black hood that covered everything but his ruddy lips and yellowed teeth. Maybe it was because the guard could literally do whatever he wanted and Jaskier didn’t have a say in what happened to him. Maybe it was because he’d already proven himself to be an asshole and Jaskier couldn’t defend himself. 

Suddenly (although Jaskier really should have seen it coming) the guard knelt down and shoved a handful of slimy cold porridge into Jaskier’s mouth. It was worse than last night. This one had watery grit that caught on his dry throat and made him gag.

“If you spit it out you’ll have to eat it again.” Warned the guard, ramming another large scoop into his still-full mouth. Jaskier coughed and choked during the entire process, and it felt like the food was going to exit out of his nose or ears whenever he did so, but eventually, he was force-fed all of the breakfast and the guard stood up with the plate, seemingly satisfied with the work he had done. He kicked Jaskier hard on his inner thighs and exited the cell, locking it once more.

Jaskier tipped his head back against the cold stone wall. The ceiling here had no wooden beams running across it, nothing but monotonous rock spread out above him. Hot tears streamed out of his eyes in humiliation. Melitele, he was stupid. He should have never hooked up with Almira. He should have kept his mouth shut like Geralt had warned him to so many times before. He should have just eaten the fucking porridge like the animal he was.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ ” He howled, stamping his feet hard enough to send pricks of pain up his leg. 

“Jaskier?” Almira’s muffled voice came from a ways away, though still understandable and unmistakably hers. “Jask, is that you?” 

“In the flesh,” Jaskier responded, sniffing wetly. He was still dripping wet and thoroughly cold. “Though I suppose given the circumstances I should say ‘In your ear.’” 

“That’s funny. I smiled.”

“It’s not that funny,” Jaskier admitted quietly. “It barely makes sense.” 

“How are you?”

“Ah, well, I can’t feel my hands. My entire backside is bruised, and I’m going to die in a mere thirty-two hours, among thousands of other things. So, great, Almira, thanks for asking.” 

“...I’m sorry.” 

Jaskier sighed, trying to throw his hands down in a ‘sorry doesn’t cut it’ manner but only merely moving them in a half-circular motion. “You could’ve maybe mentioned your husband was tracking you, you know? We could’ve avoided this entire mess.”

“I didn’t know he was tracking me! And you’re the one who _lied_ to him!” 

“Oh yeah, like I’m going to admit to your very strong, very scary husband that I’ve fucked you near a dozen times. It wasn’t just me who lied, might I add. It was also you. You don’t think I know what men like him do to women like you? ‘Almira doesn’t have friends.’ That’s what he said. And the way you acted on the dance floor? Like it was the first time you’d ever experienced freedom? You didn’t ‘lose interest’ in your husband. You never had any interest in him to begin with. You were beaten, physically and emotionally, until some idiot bard came along to help you escape.” 

“Thank goodness you did.”

“Yeah!” Jaskier laughed mirthlessly, rolling his eyes as he shuffled his feet. “Yeah, you’re right, Almira, thank goodness I did! Because if I hadn’t we wouldn’t be in this situation, and what a shame that would be!”

“I know things seem bleak right now, but-”

“Oh, love, things are way past bleak. They’re black. Charred to a crisp. Hopeless.”

“Jaskier _please_ listen! I know my husband. I know how you can defeat him.”

“With faith, trust, and pixie dust?” Jaskier gasped in mock surprise. “Melitele, why didn’t _I_ think of that?”

“No! Will you shut up? Listen to me you jerk! He might be a man of irrefutable size, but he isn’t fast, and he certainly has no endurance. If you can keep him running after you he’ll collapse from exhaustion and you can chop his head off.”

He sat there for a while, biting his lip. It could work, theoretically, except for one small thing. “I won’t kill him.”

“Well, you have to. You don’t have a choice. You kill him or he kills you.” 

_We don’t kill innocent monsters or people,_ Geralt’s voice snaked into his mind.

“He hasn’t done anything wrong. Not really, not in the legal sense of the law.” Argued Jaskier.

“Hasn’t done… Are you fucking _kidding me,_ Jaskier?! He has blackmailed everyone in our village! You know he beats me! My husband is a _bad man_. Killing him would be doing the world a favor.”

“If you’re so keen on him being murdered, maybe you should just take my place, then!”

This time it was Almira’s turn to laugh. “Oh, ho, ho, you’d just loooove that, wouldn’t you? It’s not my honor I have to defend. This is between you, the mayor, and my husband. I wouldn’t go out there even if I was allowed.”

Jaskier screamed at the unfairness of it all. He was just trying to drink away his problems for free! He never wanted to get caught between two warring lovers ever again, not after Geralt and Yennefer. How was he supposed to know that this trip would end up in death? 

“Yeah, shit sucks, Jask!” Almira yelled back. “But you need to deal with this like a man!”

“Oh, like that’s exactly what you did, you fuck-”

The guard banged on the bars of Jaskier’s cell loud enough to establish a ringing in his ear. “QUIET!” He bellowed and stuck a glove covered finger through one of the openings. “If I hear another word outta you I’ll cut your head off meself.” 

Jaskier _really_ wished he could bite the guard’s finger off, but settled for staring at the lantern in front of him instead, face stony with mute outrage. 

The rest of the morning and all of the afternoon passed in that manner. Jaskier made no attempt to converse with Almira or the guard and took the time to chew on his lip and grind his teeth in an irritated fashion. Geralt often commented on these habits of his. He told Jaskier that if he kept whittling his teeth away soon there would be nothing but gums, and then he would starve to death. Jaskier would always stick a tongue out at him in response, but make an honest effort to stop anyway. 

Every so often he’d blink to an imaginary beat in his head. Even if he hadn’t sung or played since he’d been with Geralt that didn’t mean Jaskier could just shut off the creative tap in his mind. He constantly was churning out scribeless poetry. It’d never see the light of day or be performed, but it was generated nonetheless. Whatever Jaskier was making now was turning out to be a waltz. Da-da-da, da-da-da, da-da-da. His blinking eyes swept across the room much like a couple would. 

Then, once the general beat was down, he quietly mumbled to himself, most of his now-fat lip stuck between his teeth. There was no melody as Jaskier didn’t feel like singing. It was just rhythmic poetry in all honesty, nothing special, but it helped pass the time. He was quiet enough that the guard took no notice. By the time he assumed he would be getting his dinner Jaskier had almost completed the poem.

“Well, well, well,” A voice drawled from the left of Jaskier’s cell. A thin, tall, lanky man stepped out from the shadows of obscurity. Jaskier foolishly glanced over for half a second before training his eyes back on the torch in front of him. From what he could tell, the man’s hair was elderly white, brittle, and thin. Not at all like Geralt’s hair. The top of his head was bald, but long strands hung down past his ears, and that was all Jaskier gathered. “If it isn’t Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

Jaskier made no attempt to talk. After all, the guard said he’d cut his head off if Jaskier said another word. Best not to test his resolve. 

“I’m so sorry I haven’t had time to visit you until now. Do you find the cell to your liking?” The squeaking of the cell bars opening indicated to Jaskier that the man had now walked in. “Do you know who I am, Julian?”

Jaskier shrugged as noncommittally as he could, blinking as a way of vague communication. No, he didn’t precisely know who this man was. Didn’t know what his favorite color was, didn’t know how he invested his money, but he had the same eyes as his daughter - brown with gold flecks. It was very clearly the mayor who had so very graciously come to visit him tonight. The mayor knelt down before Jaskier, elbows stretched out on his knees.

“You’ll be happy to know my daughter has a son now. Not yours, of course. I had that spawn cut out of her as soon as she stopped her monthly bleeding.” Jaskier hummed, but otherwise did not continue the conversation, and the mayor soon spoke again. “I don’t know what your plan was back then. Maybe you thought to usurp me. Maybe you wanted to make women less than what they already are. But it doesn’t matter, because you lost. My daughter married a wealthy man, I still rule this town with an iron fist, and I’ve got you captured and ready to face all the sins you’ve committed.”

Jaskier continued to bite the inside of his lip, eyes forever focused on the torch, and the mayor slapped him, bringing short tears to his eyes, though they didn’t fall down his face. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” The mayor turned his head to the guard. “What’d you do? Beat him dumb?” 

“No, milord. He hasn’t spoken since this morning. Mutters to himself, though.” 

“Mutters?” The mayor turned back to Jaskier. “A song, perhaps? My daughter said your voice is wonderful. Might you sing for me, adulterer?” 

_Keep quiet_ , his consciousness told him, still low enough to have Geralt’s signature growl rolling through the vowels and consonants like an avalanche. It came not a moment too soon, as Jaskier had opened his mouth to say, for what seemed like the millionth time, that he _was not an adulterer_ , but shut it with enough force that his teeth made a loud noise when they slammed together. 

“Tell you what,” Jaskier vaguely saw the mayor outstretching his arm and returning to his sight of vision with another plate of grey porridge. “Sing the song you sang for my daughter and you can eat your dinner.”

Jaskier blinked slowly. It was getting darker and darker in the cell. Sunset was upon them, and what little clouds he could see outside his window promised rain or snow. He sighed, not really looking forward to fighting on frozen ground. 

“Do you not remember the song?” The mayor asked him. “My daughter remembers. She sang it for me, once. Said you were a siren that night. Come now, I’ll even start it off! _The fairer sex-_ ” 

Jaskier mustered as much leg strength as he could and kicked the mayor in the chin, making a cracking sound as leather connected with bone. His dinner plate went flying up into the air, scattering near him. Most of the porridge landed in his hair and on his shoulder. 

_No one_ sang that song. Jaskier had performed it _once_ as a _warning_ to Geralt about Yennefer, who only paid attention when the crowd started to get unruly. For all his many faults Geralt did manage to procure an audience for Jaskier and keep them in line. But that had been years ago, shortly after the time of the Djinn, and Jaskier hadn’t sung it since, because Geralt clearly hadn’t listened. The crowd had, it seemed, and it still spread to the four corners of the world.

The mayor grasped his chin, the skin already starting to swell into a soft purple mound. Apparently Jaskier still had enough power to do physical harm, which came as a monumental surprise to him. Porridge slid off his long bangs and onto his nose, causing him to blink in surprise. 

“Chain his feet.” Came the mayor’s order. “Can’t let this bloody whore lash out like that.”

The guard came in, arms ladened with short chains and tiny ankle-sized manacles. He made quick work of it, too, forcing Jaskier into a weird kneeling sort of position. His ass was on the floor, legs bent at the knees behind him at a wide-angle. That was how he was chained and it was wildly uncomfortable. After about ten seconds his hamstrings already started to scream in discomfort. There was no slack to give him a reprieve. 

The mayor reached out and squeezed porridge out of Jaskier’s sopping bangs, like a farmer milking a cow. “So let’s try this again. You sing, and I’ll give you dinner. Sounds good? Or do I have to resort to more… animalistic methods?”

If you were to ask Jaskier, he already thought that the methods he’d been presented with were already animalistic as it was. Most prisoners still got use of their hands and feet and were able to walk around their cells. But not Jaskier. No, he was treated like a pig, forced to eat like one too.

He took a deep breath. Honestly he wasn’t hungry. His stomach never settled from this morning’s breakfast and the lack of water had made him undeniably thirsty. The porridge didn’t quench this thirst, only abated it due to its goopy thickness. But at least if he sang then he could be left alone sooner. 

_“Toss a coin_ -” 

“Not that one.”

Jaskier closed his steely mouth again, wincing as the pain in his thighs became stronger. 

The mayor slid a little closer to Jaskier. “I told you. I want you to sing the song that you sang for my daughter.” 

“I didn’t sing it for her.” Jaskier gritted out, teeth clenched in agony. A bead of sweat rolled down his face. 

“Right. You sang it for that Witcher. She said he was there, too. But I don’t care. That’s the song I want to hear. It captivated her whether you meant it to or not, adulterer.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake… I’m not an adulterer! Do you even know what that word means?! Pick up a fucking dictionary! If there’s anyone here that’s actually committed adultery it’s Almira!” 

“Oh?” Purred the mayor. “That’s interesting. You said last night that you and she hadn’t slept together.” 

“Excuse me for trying to save my own ass. Lying isn’t illegal. Can you _please_ get me out of these chains?” 

“No, I don’t think I will. Consider it your lesson for lying to her husband. It may not be illegal, but it was still wrong, and I still want to see you suffer before your death.”

Jaskier licked his lips, desperate for any sort of reprieve. “I’ll sing that song for you. Just let my legs free.”

The mayor laughed darkly, motioning his hands forward as a sign for Jaskier to start singing.

He was thrown back into that tavern the moment the words trickled sweetly off of his chapped lips. Geralt had been quite a bit far from him, choosing to brood in a blackened corner while Jaskier strummed and sang on top of a wobbly table. His voice was still slightly rough, but the enthusiasm from the crowd and the enjoyment of being able to sing _at all_ was enough to push Jaskier through the pain. He was, after all, an entertainer. He wouldn’t let a near death experience stop him from giving the fans what they wanted. 

There was never really any hope for Jaskier that Geralt would listen. Once in a blue moon, Geralt would cave and do something actually kind for once, but he’d done that by making sure Jaskier didn’t die, so his nice meter had all but drained. Still, Jaskier thought there was a sliver of a chance his words might reach him. Instead, they reached the ears of a woman who was pretty enough to catch Jaskier’s eye, and they ended up rolling joyfully around in the hay of the stables until the early morning when Geralt snatched a sleeping Jaskier from the girl’s arms and pushed him onto the road. 

Then, just as quickly as he was thrust into the memory, he was out of it. He felt the sliminess of some porridge fall from his hair onto his shoulder wetly and shivered from the sensation. His song had ended and his dry lips had closed. Jaskier finally made eye contact with the mayor, defiant and pleading. His entire body shook with the pain of being stuck in the position he was in.

“Oh yes, that was very pretty, Julian. I can see how you ensnared my daughter.” He took his hand and scooped some of the sloppy porridge, which was now swirled with grime from the floor, onto the plate. “You have certainly earned your dinner.”

Jaskier shut his mouth tightly as the food was smeared across the lower half of his face. Bits got stuck in his longish stubble and found its way up the inside of his nose, which took a second or two of pure panic to blow out. 

“Good isn’t it?” The mayor smiled as he stood up, patting Jaskier’s head in an almost paternal fashion. “Thank you for the performance. It really was quite nice. Too bad I’ll be your last audience.” 

Then Jaskier had to watch from his agonizingly painful kneeling position the mayor walking away, leaving him to shiver and shake from the indecency of it all. 

III

It snowed on the day Jaskier was scheduled to duel Almira’s husband. He was tossed into a cold wooden cart, hands tied behind his back, and wheeled off to the town’s arena. 

His entire body throbbed from the trauma of being stuck in the same posture for so long. No one had visited him since the mayor, although the guard had come in to shove the same plate of porridge at Jaskier twice a day, which he had refused every time until his poor face was smashed into the coldness of it all and he breathed it in like a starving pig. The only liquid he was given was the once daily splash of dirty sewage water, but despite not drinking any of it Jaskier still pissed himself twice.

The moment the guard released Jaskier from his bonds he groaned with relief and automatically curled into a tiny fetal position, rubbing his numb hands, white with blood loss. Bliss was hard won, though, because now he was being carted away to his death. 

Thank Melitele it wasn’t snowing heavily. The ground was still frozen and the snow still stuck to the corners of the unkempt road they were driving on, but there was no wind and the cold did not bite hard enough to turn Jaskier’s fingers purple. He was curled up now as he had been on the floor of his cell, bangs hanging in his line of vision. Everything was grey and brown and white, colorless and lightless. Jaskier felt his stomach flip as the cart went over a particularly nasty bump. He didn’t feel good. He felt hot and cold all at once, and despite not doing anything to produce it, sweat was already forming in his armpits and the bends of his knees. The world swam before him and all that he could really catch a glimpse of was the poster the mayor had made for Jaskier’s duel. Again, the nose was still wrong, but Jaskier couldn’t seem to care that much anymore and turned his back away. After all, he was dying. There were bigger things to worry about. 

When they arrived at the arena the guard from his cell had helped him down from the cart and down where the contestants got ready. It seemed to take a while for his eyes to adjust to the near pitch blackness of it all, but it was warm and stuffy, and Jaskier found himself standing in front of a fire while they measured him for armor.

He absentmindedly wondered what Geralt was up to today. Had he slept well last night? Was there enough coin for him to purchase breakfast? Had he finally accepted his role as a father and found his Child Surprise? Jaskier coughed weakly into his shoulder as leg pads were tied around his shins. 

Everything they were doing right now was pointless. Almira’s husband would absolutely crush him one minute into the fight. The armor was completely useless in Jaskier’s opinion. He just wanted to get this over and done with. Why drag everything out except to make him suffer?

Well… That _was_ the point of it all. Jaskier knew fully well that the mayor wanted to make an example of him, to punish him for his transgressions against his family. If the mayor was a decent and honorable man he would have had the executioner behead Jaskier right after Almira’s husband caught him. But here he was, swaying in front of a fire while being dressed in his funeral suit. 

“Weapon of choice?” Ask a man to the right of the fire. Jaskier cleared his throat tiredly. 

“Oh, um… I dunno… broadsword?” He’d never wielded one before, but he saw Geralt expertly swing it around more than a hundred times. “Steel, if you have it.”

The weapons manager chuckled to himself as he scribbled something on the parchment and walked out of the room, leaving Jaskier in the hands of the guard, leaning against a wall and leering at him intensely, and the man dressing him in armor. 

The thuds of feet from the stands above caused the ceiling to vibrate with such severity that Jaskier thought it would crash on top of him. He nearly preferred that tragic end to the one that was thrust upon him. A male announcer’s voice echoed down into his room as a helmet was placed on Jaskier’s head. His suit of armor was now complete, and as he was escorted up to the entrance of the arena he felt his legs almost buckle. 

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t fight a man who had every single advantage over himself. _Have courage,_ his mind whispered unhelpfully. Jaskier stopped in his tracks, kneeling down onto the floor, pleading to anyone who would listen. 

“Stop it. Please. Tell the mayor I’m grievously sick. He wants a good show right? I can’t give him a good show when I’m sick.”

A hand rough hoisted him up under the armpits, saying nothing as he was pushed forward into a little gated area. Bars were closed behind him, and a few steps upwards revealed the greyish light of day. The arena. All that stood before death and Jaskier was five feet and thin metal bars. The weapons master was there with him, broadsword laid in his hands. Jaskier again tried to plead, tried to make this man see reason. 

“This is crazy, right? Don’t you think this is crazy? I mean… I didn’t get a fair trial to state my case! I had consent, you can ask the daughter!” 

“Everyone knows you had consent,” said the weapons master. “But that’s not the point. The virginity of our young girls is important to our town, and to take it away before the wee lass is wed… There is no greater dishonor for the family than that.” 

“So I’m given a dishonorable death?” 

“That’s the only fair punishment.” 

“That’s not the only fair punishment! That’s not even _fair_ or a _punishment!_ It’s just cruel and unusual torture!” The man pointedly ignored him and dropped the broadsword into Jaskier’s hand, who nearly fell with the surprising weight. Geralt had let him hold one of his broadswords once, just for a few seconds, and it was not this heavy. They weren’t supposed to be this solid, were they? Jaskier thought broadswords were only four pounds at the heaviest. 

“Anything goes in the arena. You can kick, punch, bite if you’re able, stab, jab, and spit. Just don’t try to escape. There are guards posted at every gate so you won’t get out even if you wanted. Fight doesn’t end until one of the competitors is dead. Questions?” 

Jaskier huffed his annoyance and held the broadsword with two hands, the tip of it dragging in the dirt. He didn’t have a plan for the battle, and the only advice he’d been given was from Almira, whose words echoed through his head. 

_He might be a man of irrefutable size, but he isn’t fast, and he certainly has no endurance. If you can keep him running after you he’ll collapse from exhaustion and you can chop his head off._

It wasn’t great, but it was better than nothing. Jaskier wiped a sweaty hand on the hot metal of the armor. The gates opened, his name was announced (Julian Alfred Pankratz, the Adulterer, the announcer had roared. It was nice to know the mayor had stayed true to his dickish personality and not picked up a dictionary.) and he took a step forward before turning around to face the weapons master.

“Can I go to the bathroom?”

Thus he was pushed into the arena, falling on his backside before scrambling to get up on his own two feet. Just in time as well because Almira’s husband had sprinted up to Jaskier and swung a very heavy, very sharp war hammer where his head had been.

“Fuck!” Jaskier yelped, holding up his sword in a defensive position. He knew he had to run, but the world was swimming, and he was very hot. The two metals collided as Almira’s husband again brought down his hammer, sparks flying from Jaskier’s sword. This sent him running, cold wind whooshing past his hot ears as his feet slipped and slid all over the frozen snow-covered ground. He couldn’t get enough traction to garner enough space between him and Almira's husband. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” He muttered to himself, messily side rolling to avoid another smash from the war hammer. “Will you quit it?! I’m so-” Jaskier screamed in fright as he hopped away to avoid another thunderous encounter. “I’m sorry! Fuck, I’m sorry, okay! I learned my lesson! No more fucking married wives for me!” 

Jaskier started running again when his words fell on deaf ears, or, at least he tried to run. Almira’s husband nicked his heel and ended up grinding his ankle into the frozen dirt. He cried out in tremendous pain, trying to uselessly pull his leg out from the weight of metal. He saw the crowd gaze upon him from above; more vulture than person, they jeered and laughed at his misfortune, pointing and throwing bits of food into the arena. The mayor sat in his own little box, face holly red from cackling like a teenage girl. Almira was next to him, pale as a ghost. Jaskier looked up at the sky, blinking frantically as his hands clawed in the dirt.

“Stop! Stop, stop!” Tears streamed down his face as the man stomped towards him. He looked very bull-like now, the sweat nearly sizzling off of his red face. He wore no helmet and his hair stuck wetly to his face. Jaskier shivered as Almira’s husband gripped the side of his head and violently slammed it into the ground. Once. Twice. Three times.

The world rang in his ears and went bright white for a second. Jaskier honestly thought that some snowflakes had landed on his eyes, but blinking didn’t push them off. When his vision returned he noticed that Almira’s husband was different somehow. Jaskier laughed at the scene before him, though it didn’t seem very funny to anyone else. Had he been able to hear clearly he would have noticed the crowd screaming in fright and shooting off towards the exits.

Almira’s husband had no head. Or, at least, didn’t have a head that was connected to the rest of his body. The neck, torso, arms, and legs still knelt in an upright position above Jaskier, blood spurting out of the exposed arteries like some horrible fountain. The head lay on Jaskier’s chest, black eyes wide with deadly terror, tongue swinging out of the mouth. Jaskier kept laughing in abject panic because wasn’t that supposed to be him? 

Suddenly a wicked weight was pulled off of his foot, which he only felt by the nerve endings of his shin. He tried to look down at his smashed ankle, but the head was in the way. It always seemed like something was in the way of what he actually wanted to see. He numbly felt two arms hoist him up into a more comfortable sitting position, and suddenly he was cradled in Geralt’s arms, who seemed to be mutley saying something. 

Wait. Jaskier had to be dead. _Geralt_? No. Geralt was far away from him. They had forgotten each other for the most part, hadn’t they? Geralt couldn’t be _here_ , couldn’t have slain Almira’s husband like a knight slaying a dragon. He was busy chopping heads off of selkimores and kikimoras, not some lowly man for Jaskier’s sake. He tried to touch Geralt’s cheek, just to know that he was really there, but somewhere in his brain messages got mixed up, and he threw up all over his own chest.

His vomit stained mouth tried to voice the words, “Did I win?’ But Geralt didn’t answer him, and Jaskier couldn’t tell if the furrowed brows and the shining yellow eyes meant that this was a good moment or a bad moment. All that happened was that Geralt gingerly, as if he was working with a dying baby bird, picked Jaskier up, carefully minding his head as Jaskier looked up at the sky once more. His nose felt the cold, as did his fingertips. The rest of him felt warm, wet, or nothing at all. Snow fell from the grey sky at a slow rate. One landed close to his eye, so Jaskier blinked it away.

Maybe the blink had been longer than anticipated, because when he opened his eyes again he was staring at a wooden ceiling again, like the one in the inn. Jaskier’s entire body felt dull and heavy, his head and ears stuffed with cotton. He tried to recount how he had gotten here but ultimately came up empty-handed. He didn’t know exactly where he was or who he was with, and although he’d been traveling companionless for many months, the idea of being alone in an unfamiliar place positively frightened him now. Jaskier tried to sit up but barely managed to tuck his arm over his stomach as he flopped onto his side. A large, warm hand, calloused and rough, moved him back to his original position. A muffled voice made its way past Jaskier’s thick deafness, but he couldn’t make out a single word. He tried to turn his head but found that nearly impossible as well. The best range of motion he had was moving his arms and hands and even that proved exhaustingly difficult. 

The same hands poured a spoonful of water into Jaskier’s slightly parted lips. It didn’t taste dirty and tangy like the water in the jail, and even if it had been Jaskier was much too tired to fight off whoever was spoon-feeding him, so he swallowed it as best he could without coughing more than twice. 

He still felt very tired, and without being able to speak, listen, or move around to find out just exactly what had happened, Jaskier had resigned once to close his eyes, this time fully meaning to take a nice long rest.

However long later Jaskier was shaken gently awake, and his eyes fluttered open to a painful world. His ears felt like they would pop with bloody discharge. His brain felt less like a brain and more like a hodgepodge of liquidy hot soup that burned his skull whenever he moved. The only way Jaskier knew he was screaming loudly was the sensation of his throat becoming raw with use. Hands smoothed over his forehead, stroking his hair back over and over again. He wanted to know who was being so gentle. Maybe he was dead. Maybe this was some sort of Hell where they were kind to you before the real torture started. Sort of like giving a dog a false sense of security before beating it senselessly. 

Jaskier’s memory had become a jumbled unintelligible mass. The last thing he could recall clearly was the mayor leaving Jaskier alone in the cell. Had the fight happened already? Who was near him? Had Geralt found out about his duel? He coughed, taking a reprieve from absolutely massacring his vocal cords. If he saved them maybe Hell would let him sing in exchange for not being poked by pitchforks.

Almost as soon as it had come, the intense pain in his head had vanished, and Jaskier was able to blink himself back to some sort of normalcy. The only thing he knew for certain was that he was no longer suffering in the jail cell. Obviously _some_ thing had to have happened between the sunrise and the present, and whether that was good or bad remained to be seen.

His ears popped a little after that revelation, hot fluid flowing down his earlobe until he was able to hear a little of what was happening around him. The first thing Jaskier heard was the crackling of a nearby fire, and then the creaking of a wooden chair, but every noise sounded far away.

“It’s yellow and red.” The voice was achingly familiar, yet Jaskier couldn’t put a name to it, but his breathing slowed when it spoke. He didn’t know the next voice that spoke.

“Well, that’s better than clear. Yellow’s wax. If it was clear I’d tell you to buy a casket.”

“Mm.” 

Why couldn’t Jaskier remember that voice? 

“I’d recommend water and rest. Don’t let him get out of bed for a week, maybe more if his headaches persist. Let him sleep off what he can, but wake him every two hours for this night and the next.” 

“Mm,” came the voice again, but the inflection was different than last time. It was more concerned, more thoughtful than unamused at the lack of humor in an attempted joke. Jaskier wasn’t sure what exactly they were talking about, and the who of it all was very fuzzy as well. He licked his dry lips, trying to work on some sort of word or sentence that would help him figure everything out. 

“Na mphf meh.” 

“Are you sure he’s okay?” Asked the familiar voice. The unfamiliar one laughed a little.

“He’s got a pretty severe concussion. Don’t expect him to speak correctly. Give it time, Witcher. You’re lucky his skull wasn’t smashed.” 

_Witcher_.

Jaskier knew a Witcher! His name… Oh, it was on the tip of his tongue! What was his name?!

“Gemmite,” He confirmed languidly, voice wheezy and breathless, and instantly the Witcher was by his side, touching his forehead with the back of his hand. “Gemmite.” 

“Go to sleep, Jaskier. I’ll wake you up again soon.” 

IV

The applesauce tasted exactly like the jail’s porridge. So had the bone broth from this morning. Jaskier sighed and pushed the applesauce to one side of the wooden bowl in an apathetic manner. 

Geralt stood at the foot of the bed, eyebrow slightly twitching, fingers lightly drumming impatiently against the wooden frame. “You said you liked applesauce.” 

Jaskier shrugged. Some part of his damaged brain was thankful he could even do _that_. The local physician of the new town he was in said that most people in Jaskier’s position didn’t end up in bed but rather six feet underground. To be able to move most of his body without much pain or numbness was a miracle, apparently, but that didn’t mean Jaskier was happy about his current situation. Most of everyday life was a struggle and he still felt more like an animal in a prison than a man. Geralt made it clear that while he was staying to help Jaskier recover and remember, they were not friends. Gone were the soft yellow eyes of the arena. Gone were the tenderly rough hands guiding a fitful body back onto the bed. They were replaced by a frustrated, cornered man. A wolf in a cage. Jaskier knew that wolves did not lick the wounds of another from a strange pack, and he _was_ strange now. He didn’t even know himself. Case in point, a month ago he _loved_ applesauce. Couldn’t get enough of it. Now Jaskier failed to swallow a second mouthful. 

“You have to eat.” Geralt said, and while the words made sense and Jaskier knew what Geralt meant he couldn’t comprehend them, so he stayed silent and continued to play with the applesauce. In two strides Geralt stood beside him, a deep frown on his unamused face. “What now? Do you want me to feed you like a child?” 

Geralt snatched the spoon from Jaskier’s loose grip and scooped up some applesauce, pressing it none too gently to Jaskier’s tightly closed lips. “Eat it!” 

Jaskier whined, trying to weakly push Geralt away as he turned his head. But Geralt, ever the Witcher and stronger being, won out, and Jaskier swallowed the applesauce as he tried to protest. His stomach flipped and he felt like puking. 

_If you spit it out you'll have to eat it again,_ came the guard's words. Jaskier took deep, slow breaths, trying to control the nausea he felt. That was another big reason he tried to avoid eating. Besides the ashen, gritty taste food had, everything also made Jaskier want to throw up. Geralt could coax a small cup of water into him every four hours or so, but anything more would send Jaskier hurling. It happened with the bone broth, too, and at that point Jaskier thought that applesauce would help. He’d been wrong, it turned out.

Geralt sighed, teeth grinding together as he replaced the bowl of applesauce with a wooden bucket. Jaskier promptly vomited the contents of his stomach, coughing horribly as he did so. 

“Fish,” Jaskier croaked, although he meant to say the word ‘sorry’. Geralt patted between his shoulder blades in an awkward fashion.

“It’s okay. We’ll try water again later.”

Jaskier leaned back against the headboard, feeling very empty, very weak, and very hot. He could feel the beginnings of a headache rumbling in the back of his mind, which made him want to burst into tears. He was so fucking tired of being in pain, of not being able to do anything for himself. The physician said that with time some of the concussion symptoms would slowly decrease, like the headaches and the difficulty speaking and if Jaskier was lucky he’d be almost back to normal within a few months of genuine rest. 

Of course, knowing Jaskier’s recent track record with Lady Luck, he’d be like this until he died in some sort of miserable way. 

Geralt switched to the other side of the bed and knelt on the mattress, taking Jaskier’s foot in his large hands. Jaskier didn’t feel any of it happening, of course, what with the nerve damage and all. He wasn’t sure what it looked like underneath all the gauze and bandages. Geralt usually cleaned it and rewrapped it while Jaskier slept fitfully. He couldn’t really remember what had happened to his foot, his only memory being an insane amount of pressure pressed upon his limb. 

Slowly the bandages came undone, becoming sticky with dried blood and platelets the closer Geralt got to the injury itself. Jaskier looked from his foot to Geralt’s face, nearly mesmerized by the absolute lack of emotion he showed. There was no doubt Geralt had seen worse, had given worse, had received worse than what Jaskier currently suffered, but to be completely desensitized fascinated Jaskier to no end. It didn’t used to. It used to scare him.

What had the inhabitants of Kaer Morhen done to Geralt? What had they shown him to make him this desensitized towards human suffering? 

Jaskier’s eyes flickered back to his broken foot as the last bandage was torn from his skin. A wave of dizziness fell upon him as the scope of the injury finally registered in his brain, and his mouth felt as cottony as it had when Geralt left him on the mountainside. 

There was hardly any skin to cover the top of his foot, ligaments and bones exposed to the world. Muscle hung in a detached manner in flaps off the sides. His toes were bent in an upward fashion, nearly turning his foot into a ninety-degree phenomenon. Geralt grumbled and tsked as he moved the foot side to side, giving an experimental poke on the heel. 

“Do you feel that?” 

Jaskier honestly didn’t even know what Geralt was referencing, but he didn’t trust his mouth to say what he thought, so he smiled timidly and shook his head as gently as he could.

Geralt hummed thoughtfully as he went to get a large bowl of water and a washcloth. “It’s not infected, at least.” 

It was silent for a while as Geralt dutifully cleaned Jaskier’s wounds. Jaskier closed his eyes, letting the pain of the now fully formed headache wash over him. He knew that he probably could have asked Geralt to blow out what little candles there were in the room, but he was working with very little light as it was. Besides, Jaskier wanted to seem strong where he could be. He wanted Geralt to be proud of him for soaking up pain like a sponge without complaints. As it stood, the room was already pretty dark. Geralt had requested some chestnut-colored wool to pin over the windows. 

“Er… um… One… One time I got my arm caught in a monster's mouth…” Jaskier opened one eye, eyebrows dropping in a confused manner. Was Geralt trying to make conversation? Make him feel better about his bum foot? Show compassion? “I couldn’t feel anything from my elbow down… so… uh… What I’m trying to say is… um… you’ll be fine.” 

“Thanks, Geralt.” Jaskier managed, closing his eye again. He hoped what he said was cohesive. Everything was in his mind, it was just when the words went to his mouth that they got jumbled. Even in near blackness it now felt like everything was spinning. He couldn’t get a grasp on anything; language, taste, his memories. They were all swirling around like grimy sand in a puddle, and Jaskier couldn’t grasp a single grain of it.

If Jaskier were asked to explain how exactly he’d ended up here, under these circumstances, it would be like asking a drunk, severely alcoholic man why exactly he couldn’t stop drinking. Both answers, of course, would be a very confused, very heartfelt, ‘I don’t know.’ Because truthfully he didn’t. The puddle only showed a blurry version of himself, grey with disorder and mysteriousness. It didn’t offer any sort of answer. 

He hadn’t gathered the courage to ask Geralt how they ended up here. Jaskier couldn’t pinpoint exactly why he hadn’t done it yet. Maybe it was because once Jaskier knew what happened and could properly care for his injuries on his own, Geralt would leave him again. At least if Jaskier didn’t know how to avoid another situation like this Geralt would have to stay… wouldn’t he? 

The only thing Jaskier _was_ certain about was that he didn’t want Geralt to leave. He wasn’t scared of the world necessarily, just scared of what he was doing to it. The mayor’s town was probably very peaceful before Jaskier came along. Geralt and Yennefer would either never have fought on the mountaintop or met under completely different circumstances had Jaskier not driven Geralt to madness at the Djinn’s pond. Almira would have cornered another sad bloke and successfully gotten away from her husband.

Whatever had happened to Jaskier between the prison and now… he deserved every bit of it, and yet he was still so fucking furious at the pain life caused him now. He couldn’t sing or play his lute, couldn’t walk around without relying heavily on Geralt, couldn’t even fucking _think_. But karma is a seductress of the finest brothel, and Jaskier was so very easy to beguile.

Geralt shook him gently awake. Jaskier popped his eyes open, rubbing his face tiredly. “Fuck,” he whispered. It was darker now; weak afternoon sun barely penetrated the brown wool on the windows, but the almost darkness barely helped Jaskier’s pain. His head felt like it was going to be split in two, his bruised brain pounding and thumping around his aching skull. 

“Pain?” Geralt asked. Jaskier made a fist with his hand, letting it move up and down as a way to communicate without nodding. He’d learned it in a forest when they couldn’t talk lest the current monster of the week hear them.

It seemed like Geralt almost smiled, what with the way his lips slightly twinged at the corners. “You remember I taught you the sign for yes.” He cleared his throat, all semblance of fondness gone from his voice. “You’re looking at me funny. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Jaskier?” 

“Twelve,” Jaskier replied in a hoarse whisper, thinking he’d been asked when he had first broken his hand. He watched as Geralt leaned forward on his chair and passed a thumb softly over Jaskier’s heather-soft bangs. 

“If only Yennefer was here. She’d know what to do. How to fix you.”

“Yew-feather,” Supplied Jaskier unhelpfully. He leaned into Geralt’s light touch as much as he could without becoming overly dizzy. Soon, though, Geralt helped him back into a lying position on the pillow. Jaskier winced, half-formed words pouring out of his mouth. 

“Shh, shh, Jaskier. Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you up again soon.”

The next time he awoke it was of his own volition. Jaskier’s headache was still very much present, although the pain had slightly decreased. The only light that he could see was the two candles Geralt kept lit so he could maneuver his way around the room, but he didn’t stare at them for long because they set off more pain. 

“Ah,” Jaskier sucked air through his teeth and winced, sitting up a little too fast and clutching his head as a wave of dizziness washed completely over him. He felt like fainting, but Geralt was there to ground him, a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t move.” He ordered. Or might have just recommended. Jaskier couldn’t really understand Geralt’s emotions most of the time when he wasn’t brain damaged. Now it seemed even more impossible. “How’s the head?” 

Not trusting himself to speak, Jaskier made a fierce grimace with his face, screwing up his eyes and mouth, scrunching up his nose and eyebrows. He wasn’t sure Geralt would get what he was trying to convey. Geralt was dense like that sometimes. He was dense pretty much all of the time, especially when it came to dangerous, albeit sexy, magic women. 

A cool mug of porcelain was pressed to his knuckles. “Ginger water,” Geralt supplied helpfully. “It helps with nausea and headaches.” 

Jaskier gripped the mug and drank it slowly, letting the water dribble down his chin as his hands shook with exertion. It was amazing how tired he got just doing simple tasks. He drained half of it before lowering it into his lap, leaning against the headboard to catch his breath. 

In the darkness, he could make out twin vases, long and thin, on his nightstand. Within each lay two simple flowers: a wild rose and a pansy. Jaskier couldn’t see the colors, but he assumed they complimented each other. He reached out and tried to grab one of the roses, missing entirely and just grasping air. Geralt slid the other vase towards Jaskier’s hand. Fucking double vision. Another grand symptom of being smashed into the ground repeatedly. 

“A lady came and dropped these off for you. Said she was sorry.” 

“Almira,” Jaskier confirmed, with a short, soft nod of his head.

Geralt didn’t reply, and Jaskier only looked at the flowers, trying to concentrate on the _real_ ones and not the fake doubles. The petals felt soft and velvety when he rubbed them between his fingers, bringing forth sweet floral fragrances into the room.

“Was Almira the daughter that you fucked?” 

Jaskier pushed his middle and pointer finger down to meet his thumb.

“No. Okay. But you _did_ fuck her, right?”

A nod of Jaskier’s fist confirmed Geralt’s question. 

“I’m probably going to regret asking this, but… what’s she sorry for?”

Jaskier swallowed and cleared his throat, licking his dry, cracked lips. “We fought in jail. Pretty sure, anyway. My brain still feels like mush. Am I even making sense?” 

“Jaskier, I’ve no idea what you just said.” 

“No, I don’t want soup.” 

He took another swill of the tepid ginger water, letting it rest on his tongue for a second or two. The taste was the same as the applesauce before it and the bone broth before that, just slightly watered down at the lack of multiple ingredients. Geralt squeezed his shoulder in quiet strength, probably to let Jaskier know that he was here, that he wasn’t going to leave. 

But he had left. That was the point. Geralt was here now, sure, but he had left when the going got tough and he was unable to connect with his feelings, and he would do so again. Jaskier understood that his anger had been misdirected towards him, that Geralt was really just mad at himself for making a mistake. Nonetheless, it still hurt. Jaskier still felt the ugly faded scar over his heart, and whatever Geralt said or did now had to be taken with a grain of salt. Jaskier jerked his shoulder away, sipping more of his drink. Despite the taste being rank, it had helped to settle his sea of a stomach. His headache didn’t hurt as much either. 

Jaskier watched with mild curiosity as Geralt rubbed his knees and cleared his throat before standing up. He went over to the door, grabbing the handle before hesitating and turning his head towards Jaskier again.

“I’ll be back. I’m not sure if you can understand me now. I’m just getting an ale and a bath ordered.” 

Then Jaskier was alone, staring into the clear blackness of his mug with a sort of fascination a child would have upon noticing their reflection for the first time. In a way that was what was happening, because Jaskier looked unfamiliar to himself. There were angry red lines gliding briskly from his inner cheeks to his ears, almost claw-like in their path. It was then met with bald patches where hair should be; strips of desert skin where thick waving fields of dark hair had once been. His bottom lip was fat as well. He blinked, draining the rest of the water before shakingly trying to set it on one of the two desks he saw. The mug promptly shattered when it hit the floor, and Jaskier screamed in frustration. 

“Geralt!” He irritably cried out, wondering where he’d gone off to. Jaskier couldn’t remember what happened in the last couple of minutes. The only thing that stood out among the smoke of hazy half-memories was Geralt sliding a vase of flowers into Jaskier’s hand. That didn’t account for his absence, and not knowing made Jaskier more angry. 

Silence was the only response he received. Jaskier huffed out through his bottom lip, causing the long brown bangs to float up unevenly for a second or two. If Geralt wasn’t here to help him clean up his mess (which was usually the case, especially in the past five months) then Jaskier would have to do it himself. He sat up straight in the bed, commending himself for being able to gain this much strength this quickly before falling forward, head between his knees. 

“Fuck… GERALT!” Jaskier tried again, pushing with his arms to hold his torso up, tossing his head to the sky in some sort of half-attempt at prayer. “If I ever see that man again, I swear I’ll… Well, I don’t know _what_ I’ll do, but he’ll fucking regret ever leaving me.”

With a little bit more effort Jaskier was able to swing his legs off the bed, careful to maneuver his smashed ankle so as not to injure it further. He was panting with exertion, chest heaving in and out. Next, he placed his good foot on the floor beside the shards of ceramic and pushed a little off the bed to test the weight. It seemed okay and Jaskier smirked. He could take care of himself after all. He didn’t need Geralt.

He regretted thinking that roughly ten seconds later when he stood up and collapsed to the floor in a heap just as Geralt opened the door. 

“Damn it, Jaskier.” 

Geralt knelt down and scooped Jaskier up like he weighed nothing, placing him back on the bed. Jaskier was angry enough to forget that his words might not make sense.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you wouldn’t have left. I didn’t know if you were coming back.” 

He scoffed. “Of course I was coming back. You obviously didn’t listen.” 

“I listen just fine! It’s your poor communication skills that are the problem!” 

“You have a concussion.” Geralt reasoned sensibly, bending down and picking up the large pieces of the broken mug. “You probably got confused and couldn’t remember what happened.”

“I don’t see why that matters. You’re still shit at communicating.”

“And _you_ still don’t listen.” 

A knock on the door interrupted their squabbling. Geralt stood up and went to it. Two women walked in with a tub of warm, soapy water and placed it in the middle of the floor, afterward bowing slightly to Geralt in a frightened sort of manner, and grabbed the shards from his hand before exiting. 

Jaskier snickered. “Looks like you still scare the shit outta people.”

Geralt turned to him, a fantastic scowl burned onto his face. “Evidently you’re not that great of a bard if people are still scared of me.”

“Songs only do so much! I did what I could, but there’s no accounting for grumpy faces like yours. Haven’t I always told you to smile? A smile goes a long way, Geralt.” 

“One of those so-called smiles got you where you are right now.” 

“And I don’t regret a second of it.” 

Geralt raised an eyebrow as he helped Jaskier to undress before letting him step into the bath, keeping his injured ankle on the edge of the tub.

“Alright,” Jaskier confessed, scooping water into his hands and pouring it over his head. “So I regret _some_ of it. Particularly when the guard and the mayor chained me up and pushed my face into the slop they called food. And whatever happened with my head and foot. I probably regret that too. But usually my smile opens numerous doors that would otherwise be closed to me.” 

Geralt handed him the soap. “They… chained you up? Force-fed you like a pig? Like you were nothing more than some animal?” 

“Ye...Yeah… They did. I didn’t think I remembered that part.”

Geralt turned his face away and Jaskier lathered himself up. “Should’ve killed those bastards, too.” 

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I said I should’ve killed those bastards, too.” 

Jaskier blinked, the bar of soap absently falling into the hot water. “Who else did you kill?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

“ _No_. Geralt. Tell me. Who else did you kill?” 

Geralt reached into the water, grabbed the soap, and pressed it back into Jaskier’s hands, wrapping his thin fingers around it. His eyes were narrowed slits, harsh yellow lines peering into Jaskier’s face. Despite being naked and physically helpless, this… soul searching was by far more uncomfortable. Jaskier didn’t really know what to call this that was between him and Geralt. It was less of emotional vulnerability and more of a predator sizing up his prey, like Geralt was seeing if Jaskier could handle whatever secrets he held. Whatever it was, it made his ears hot with embarrassment more than. The lavender steam from the water felt suffocating. 

“You really don’t remember much, do you?” 

“Don’t you think that if I did, I would be much more skittish or something?” He snapped, tugging his hand out of Geralt’s hold and rubbing the soap under his armpits. They ached from the degrading position he had been put in in the jail and were tender to the touch but were otherwise fine. His wrists, though, were watercolor paintings of purple, green, and muted yellow. “Stop avoiding the question and answer me.” 

“You don’t have enough self-preservation to be skittish.” Geralt got up from his squat position as a woman opened the door and handed him a pint of ale. Then, he returned to Jaskier’s side and sipped his drink, licking the foam off of his upper lip. Jaskier wondered if that, too, would taste like grey porridge to him. “Trauma affects people differently, Jaskier.”

“How can it affect _me_ if I don’t even know what _happened_ to me?” 

“You don’t eat.” Geralt pointed out, taking another large gulp.

“That’s not fair. Everything tastes the same. Like the gruel they forced into me at the pri- Oh Melitele I’m traumatized.” 

Geralt grunted in agreement as he drank. Jaskier sat in the tub, his skin soaking up water and his mind soaking up the fragmented memories of the past couple days. He blinked dazedly and wanted nothing more in the world than to sink into the scented water. 

“I’m so stupid.” 

“You’re not stupid.”

“I _am_ stupid! Why didn’t I realize? Why can I not remember? The physician said I would remember.” 

“He also said you might not. Your memories are damaged. You don’t remember me leaving to order a drink and a bath. Do you remember arriving at the inn?” 

Jaskier shut his eyes tight, letting his mind reel back as far as it would let him, but he only came up with empty blackness in regards to whatever Geralt was referencing, and gingerly shook his head. 

“I killed the man you were dueling. Chopped his head clean off. And I should have killed the mayor and the prison guard.” 

“You told me we don’t kill men,” Jaskier whispered, feeling the back of his bruised brain throb.

“No, _you_ don’t kill men. _I_ kill monsters. _He_ was a monster.”

“But you didn’t know that. You just saw him chasing me around the arena. For all you knew it could have been the other way around. Maybe you should’ve chopped my head off. Maybe I’m the monster.” 

Geralt sighed and set his cup on the floor. Jaskier felt him grab the soap and dunk it in the water before rubbing it softly on his scalp. He felt thumbs circle the nape of his neck delicately as if Jaskier was made of the purest, most fragile china and any rough touch would shatter him completely. He never knew Geralt to be this capable of smooth gentleness. He handled people like they were nothing more than coarse burlap sacks, filled with manure and made to be tossed and thrown in a carefree manner. Yennefer had been the exception and even she was little better than a heavy unpolished gemstone. What gave Jaskier the right to be porcelain? 

“You’re not a monster. You’re an honorable man. Ill-advised, yes, but still honorable. When the woman came to give you those flowers she told me what you did for her-” 

“I lied.” Jaskier interrupted softly, letting Geralt tilt his head to the right and left as he massaged above the ears. His headache was as good as gone. He felt weightless in the bath and allowed his eyes to close. The lavender steam no longer choked him, rather it freed up his airways and permitted him to take deeper, fuller breaths. 

“Everyone does. I lie. I lie to you.” 

“I knew you didn’t mean it when you said I sounded like a pie with no filling.”

Geralt fingers twitched, and something like a singular, strangled chuckle issued out of his mouth. “No, that was the truth. I meant more along the lines of-”

Jaskier pulled himself out of Geralt’s touch, peeling his eyes open. “If you’re talking about the last time we saw each other, it’s fine. You were angry. I get it.”

“So, we’re good?” 

“We’re _great,_ ” Jaskier replied through clenched teeth. “Help me out of this tub.” 

“I haven’t finished washing your hair.”

Jaskier dipped forward, dunking his head in the water before coming back up, long strands wetly clung to his face. He started pushing himself up on shaky arms. “You have now.”

V

The next four days moved with a sluggish pace. Jaskier finally got to sleep uninterrupted, so much of his free time was spent curled up in a mound of blankets and pillows. They smelled faintly of honeysuckle and the same lavender soap he took baths with, and the darkness of the room helped him to float in sweet, dulcet tones of slumber. If he had dreams he couldn’t remember them; only fleeting feelings and a snapshot or two. Luscious, green trees. Red rubies. A deep blue ocean that sailed him into a bout of loneliness when he awoke. 

Geralt came and went throughout the day, saying that he needed to stock up on ingredients for his potions or that he couldn’t afford the inn’s stew so he had to go hunt some rabbits. Jaskier didn’t really believe him but never brought up what he thought Geralt’s true intentions were. Murder was probably first on his mind. Jaskier knew him well enough to know that while Geralt _did_ maintain a code of honor there were certain transgressions a person could commit that would render said code null and void. If Geralt was out hunting down the mayor or the prison guard he was smart about it. He didn’t come back bloody or stinking or breathless, which meant Jaskier didn’t have any proof as to his whereabouts. Sometimes his hand was wrapped around the neck of a rooster or rabbit, maintaining his original alibi. 

They ate together at night. Or, rather, Jaskier poked his dinner around his plate while Geralt scarfed his own down like a starved wolf. Every so often he’d manage a small bite. Solid foods had a little more taste to them and Jaskier no longer threw up if he ate slowly. Sometimes he’d manage up to half a plate before pressing his leftovers onto Geralt who would eye him somewhat fretfully but would never say anything about it. 

Silence was a common companion for the two of them now. Geralt seemed interested only in medical questions or bringing up the mountainside. Jaskier, who could probably speak with no jumbled words now, said yes or no with his fingers, and wouldn’t entertain the thought of anything other than his head and foot. He still firmly believed that once Geralt had said his piece and once he was able to fend for himself that Geralt would pack up and leave him again.

The physician had come by two days prior and reset Jaskier’s foot as best he could, telling Jaskier he would probably always walk with a limp and there was a possibility he’d never have full feeling or range of motion. Jaskier still couldn’t tell when someone was poking his foot even though he was looking right at it. 

Writing had also been introduced back into his life, so when Jaskier wasn’t sleeping he scribbled his artistic chicken scratch all over rolls and rolls of parchment. At first words were nearly unintelligible; neither Geralt nor Jaskier could make out what he was trying to say other than the odd noun or two. But as Jaskier regained his strength and as his concussion symptoms decreased he found it easier to make his handwriting legible enough to read.

Not asking Geralt what exactly happened forced Jaskier to recount what he knew and what he thought he knew on paper. He made a list of the things that had absolutely, with no shadow of a doubt, definitely happened to him. Admittedly this list was quite short and in fact only had two points on it: Almira and I fought, and Geralt chopped a man’s head off. Everything else was ice water in his brain. Thinking about it made him shiver with the fear of both knowing and unknowing. It really was a confusing way of going about things and ended up hurting his head more.

Despite being disappointingly short the list itself was enough for Jaskier to work with. With only a few gaps in his memory he was able to logically conclude that Almira’s husband had probably smashed his foot and had either struck his head with a rock or bashed it into the ground. Where Geralt came into the equation Jaskier didn’t know, but probably somewhere shortly after the head-smashing was his best and most educated guess. 

It was during dinner on the fifth day that the mutual silence finally broke like a dam too pregnant with water. 

“We need to talk.” Geralt’s face was lit softly by the warm caress of the candle.

“No, I don’t have double vision. Yes, I can understand you.” Jaskier sawed through the hard breast of a chicken. 

“Not about that. About the last time we saw each other. About how we left things.”

Jaskier laughed mirthlessly, letting his eyes roll fantastically into the back of his head as he lifted a small stringy bite to his mouth. He chewed slowly. “Oh, dear witcher, you mean how _you_ left things.”

“It was wrong of me to say what I said to you."

“Yep. Cool. Glad we got that cleared away.” Jaskier pushed his plate back from him as he swallowed and stretched his arms up towards the ceiling. “Boy, I’m tired. I think it’s time for bed.” 

“Damn it, Jaskier!” Geralt balled his hands into fists. Jaskier watched with a curious intensity as Geralt very nearly slammed them onto the table, but screwed his face up and exhaled instead, unfurling his fingers. “I’m trying to apologize. So stay put.” 

“I don’t want an apology.” 

“What _do_ you want?” 

Jaskier knew what he wanted. He had always known what he wanted from Geralt the past five months. He wanted Geralt to never leave him because he was absolutely disastrous on his own. Almira and her murderous husband aside, Jaskier couldn’t handle being alone anymore. A bard with a rainbow of women glued to his side was a lonely bard indeed. He was afraid of spending nights chained to a wall in a position that made him tremble uncontrollably with pain, so he wanted Geralt beside him, protecting him before it ever got that bad again. 

But their relationship was never built on wants, only on necessary needs. Jaskier knew this. It was the reason behind Jaskier fucking in a bitter hay-filled stable instead of a warm room. It was the reason why he never rode behind Geralt on Roach and trailed behind a few feet. Jaskier wanting to be Geralt’s companion did not outweigh Geralt’s needs. He wasn’t really sure what exactly Geralt needed, but it certainly wasn’t an annoying bard, that much was clear. The only reason Geralt was here was because Jaskier had needed someone to nurse him back to health. 

“It doesn’t matter.” He gritted out, bending down to rub at his lame foot. 

“It _does_. If it’s you, it absolutely matters.” 

“Did you try and tell Yennefer the same thing?” Jaskier snapped his head back up. “I imagine you did. I also imagine she shot you down and that’s why you saved me. Sloppy seconds. You couldn’t get a diamond so you’re settling for fool’s gold.”

“Yennefer is currently unreachable.”

“So that’s a yes?” 

“You’re not fool’s gold.” Romantic notions regurgitated by Geralt sounded strange and foreign, like walking up to a once far-away stream expecting it to be laden with water as clear as white sapphires but finding it flowing free with brown sticks and dirt from an ever farther off landslide. Jaskier scrunched up his face.

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Wax poetic. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Dueling a man to the death doesn’t suit _you_ , yet you tried to do it anyway.” 

Jaskier almost smiled at the homely jab. It nearly felt like old times, full of forestry smells and the sounds of warbling birds and the sights of the distant mountains he loved to sit on and watch flaming sunsets dousing themselves as a ritual suicide. “Even if I wanted an apology we couldn’t go back to how it was.” 

Geralt looked down. Jaskier noticed that he hadn’t eaten anything. The food on the plate was picked apart like vultures would tear open a ribcage yet most of the meat and vegetables remained scattered. “Why?”

“Because that’s now how it works. I can’t just pretend you didn’t say those things to me. They _hurt_ me, Geralt. Hurt me for weeks. And then I was angry. I was so angry that I tried to hunt you down and really let you have it. Then the anger cooled and now I’m just tired, but that doesn’t mean the pain is any less.”

“Jaskier…” 

“I know,” He shook his head. “But that doesn’t change anything.” 

“Would you still like to travel with me? If you can’t forgive me... if you’re still hurt… What I mean is… _fuck_. Come with me. I would sleep easier at night knowing you’re safe six feet away instead of being tormented in a jail cell.”

Jaskier sat quietly for a moment and pretended to ponder Geralt’s offer. “You’re not going to leave me again?” 

“Not if I have any say in the matter.”

“Fine,” His eyes glinted devilishly in the soft candlelight. “But no more fucking girls in the hay. I want my own inn room.” 

Geralt smiled for the first time in a long while. “Deal.” 

**Author's Note:**

> @ everyone who hates that i tagged it the way i did: my cat AND my best friend liked it so *in edna turnblad’s voice from the 2005 motion picture hairspray* i just don’t give a damn


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